When he comes back, it feels like
my eyes are finally unclouded.
I look out over the city and sense its
gentle pulsations; its amber glow
and jewels. In every light that burns, I know
a ritual is calling me back
from the absence.
in my ear.
There are spies everywhere.
From the dull grey of the kitchen knife
to the dirt crescents of my nails,
I can finally see them for what they are.
And from the balcony of my condominium,
I receive missives from my enemies
who have perceived my knowing.
They have seen my head illuminated
like polished silver, unvarnished truth.
Even the crows snipering in the trees
have called a truce.
So this is the aftermath, the post calculation.
Whatever violence that was left
is now garlanded in light.
And you can see him walking down the slope--
the bridegroom in shameless velvet--
to where I sleep
With songs, he rouses me to wakefulness.
With kisses, he douses me to hopefulness.
“It’s time to write again, my love.
For our master has returned.”
And he looks at me, his eyes
sparkling with a desire
to begin our story again.